


Smooth Operator

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chat-up lines, Eavesdropping, Flirting, Geralt POV, Jaskier is very good at flirting, Jealousy, M/M, explicit flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Geralt froze with the jug to his lips. Jaskier was flirtingwell. He was flirting so well that Geralt had found himself dragged along into the fantasy that Jaskier had constructed for someone else.Jaskier is, apparently, an accomplished flirt. But every time Geralt's seen him in action, he's all awkward jokes and failing chat-ups - so how is it that he's got lovers in every town? It isn't until Geralt overhears Jaskier flirting with someone, completely unaware that Geralt's even there, that Geralt realises just how effective the bard's flirtations can be.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 726





	Smooth Operator

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by mydarlingwitcher's [headcanon on tumblr](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/post/612858254506262528/mydarlingwitcher-so-we-all-know-about-the) that Jaskier really is an amazing flirt - just finds himself too distracted to do it well when Geralt is around.

Geralt stomped his way towards the town square, the recently-removed head of the water hag dangling from one hand by its slimy green hair. The reward on the beast’s head hadn’t been as high as he’d usually ask for such a job - but his purse was lighter than he’d like and he wouldn’t turn his nose up at whatever the townsfolk could afford. The alderman had apologised for the poor payment, citing the war, but had offered Geralt free board at the town’s inn for the single night he would need it. 

The water hag’s swamp fell virtually at the midpoint between the jurisdictions of this town and the next, and they’d been squabbling over who would need to deal with her for, as far as Geralt could tell, several months. The necrophage had disrupted both of their trade routes - as well as trade between both towns and the nearest city - but neither of them had taken any steps to deal with it. 

And then the most recent deaths at the hands of the hag had forced them both into action. It was almost poetic, really: a pair of young lovers, meeting in secret, devoured by a hideous beast. He’d have to tell Jaskier next time their paths crossed. 

After a night’s sleep on the edge of the foul-smelling swamp, Geralt was looking forward to having a real bed for the night as he marched across the square, the hag’s head knocking against his knee. The alderman’s residence was small but comfortable, and for once there was no bargaining or haggling and he left the house with a small bag of coins hidden away in an inner pocket. 

At the inn, the landlady had clearly been told to expect a filthy witcher on her doorstep, and didn’t even raise her eyebrows when he walked in. She greeted him briefly then led him upstairs to a room already prepared with a hot bath and soaps, as well as the bags he’d left under the care of the alderman. Before leaving, she’d told him where to find the best tavern in the town with an assurance that if he mentioned the alderman’s name he’d be sure to get a fair price. 

As soon as she was gone, Geralt stripped off his ruined clothes and lowered himself into the bath. He scrubbed away the muck, keen to get out and find something to eat. His hair was tangled with sludge and debris, and as he dunked his head underwater he found himself wishing that he had a little assistance with the unpleasant task. 

Finally he was clean, and while he didn’t smell of roses he certainly no longer stank of shit, so he quickly dried and dressed, threw on his travelling cloak and headed towards the tavern. 

Even from the other side of the town square, he could hear the noise of people within, chatting and shouting and - was that singing? He paused, focusing his hearing, trying to pick out individual sounds amongst the cacophony. A lute? Something tensed within him. No - he was being foolish. There were hundreds of singers and troubadours and wandering minstrels in these parts. Only one of them was his. 

_Shit_. Not his. He only _knew_ one of them. 

The tavern itself was built on the corner of the road, a sizable establishment compared to the population of the town. Geralt supposed it was thanks to the busy trade routes: merchants and guildsmen needed somewhere to eat and drink and do business, so it made sense that the tavern was a buzz of activity. 

He pushed his way into the building and was immediately hit with a wall of sound. It was overwhelming, but a welcome respite from the hours he’d spent crouched in the swamp, hyper-aware of every twig cracking and frog croaking. 

Inside, the tavern’s true size was revealed - it was built into the turn of the road, split into two rooms. The first was simple enough, crammed with benches packed with locals eating and drinking. There was a wide doorway to a second room at the back, covered with a moth-eaten looking curtain. The singing and - yes, the sound of instruments - was floating in from there. Geralt had neither the time nor the desire to watch a subpar performance this evening, so settled himself at an empty spot at the end of the bar. 

The landlady had been right, and the man behind the bar was thankful that Geralt had rid them of the monster cursing their trade, giving him a hefty discount on the surprisingly good ale and hearty stew. Geralt wasn’t used to such a warm welcome - especially when travelling alone - and while he was thankful he was still too cautious to let his guard down just yet, keeping his cloak on and his hood up, concealing his face. 

The barman didn’t seem to mind his secretiveness, though, and kept his jug topped up, which was all Geralt could bring himself to care about. He was nursing his second pint when there was a round of applause from the back room, and the barman rolled his eyes. He spotted Geralt looking at him. 

“Keep a hold of that seat, witcher,” he warned, “it’s about to get very busy.” 

Geralt said nothing, just took another sip of his ale. The barman was soon proven right, and the apparent crowd that had been hidden away in the back room began to make their way to the bar. Geralt stiffened his shoulders and leaned away from the crush, happy with his position against the wall. 

He was weighing up the desire for another drink against the irritating press of the noisy, drunken crowd when a sound caught his ear. A laugh. A laugh he knew better than he knew his own voice. 

Geralt’s first thought was a vague annoyance that Jaskier hadn’t recognised him. This was quickly dismissed - of course Jaskier hadn’t recognized him: he was huddled in the shadowy corner of the bar wearing a hood pulled down over his face. This, plus the pleasant buzz of the ale, made him decide to go and greet the bard - it must have been his performance that Geralt had dismissed when he’d entered. 

Yet… 

Jaskier laughed again. Geralt concentrated on the sound, honing in. Jaskier was only two tables away from the bar, chatting to another man. Both of them laughed - Jaskier’s noisy trills mingling with his friend’s lower guffaws. Something made Geralt pause. He recognised the intonation of that laugh. 

Was Jaskier… flirting? 

Oh, well then. Geralt had seen this song and dance before: for all Jaskier’s reputation as a philanderer and a seducer, Geralt had very rarely seen him in action. It was undeniable that Jaskier’s charm _worked_ \- he often had a companion to warm his bed - but Geralt couldn’t work out _why_. His flirtations were awkward and off-kilter, his jokes fell flat. His come-ons and compliments were often vaguely insulting or just downright bizarre. If Geralt heard anyone else flirt like Jaskier, he’d assume it was a deliberate affectation - a _tactic_. But Jaskier, buzzing with nervous energy, was terribly sincere. 

Jaskier was sincere, and blundering, and certainly didn’t need the sudden appearance of a grizzled, grumpy witcher at his side. Geralt’s presence was enough to put off even the most eager potential lover. 

Geralt continued to drink his beer, staring forwards at the barrels behind the bar, trying not to eavesdrop on Jaskier’s conversation. But now he was focused on Jaskier’s voice it was impossible to ignore - like seeing a face in a pile of leaves or in the shapes of clouds and being unable to see anything else. 

“It’s a natural talent,” Jaskier was saying, smoothly, “I’ve got extremely dexterous fingers.” 

“Is that so?” That was the man - the person Jaskier was trying to win over. 

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier continued, “I can do all sorts of exciting things with the right instrument.” 

“I’d be interested in seeing that.” 

“I’m sure you would.” 

Geralt cursed himself. Jaskier would be horrified to know he was being snooped on like this, _especially_ considering the direction the conversation was rapidly hurtling in. Geralt waved towards the barman, who refilled his mug, then began to drum his fingers against the bar. 

“Have you ever been to Toussaint?” 

Geralt’s ears pricked up. He hadn’t heard this line before. Neither had Jaskier’s companion, apparently. 

“I’ve not had the pleasure.” 

“And what a pleasure it is! All verdant fields and lush grass and, oh - the _wine!_ It’s a beautiful place, really.” 

“It sounds like it.” 

“Mmm, all… warmth and sunshine and long days full of nothing but wine and…” 

There, Jaskier trailed off. Geralt wondered what he was doing, and had to resist the urge to turn around. He gripped the handle of the jug a little tighter. 

“Hmm…” Whatever it was, the other man seemed very receptive. 

“There’s this inn,” Jaskier said, his voice now a low whisper that Geralt had to strain to hear, “The Cockatrice. Built into the bridge near Dun Tynne, close enough to Beauclair to walk there on an evening, but far enough away that at night all you can hear is crickets and the river. I stayed there, once, a couple of years back. The air - oh, the air is thick and heady in the summertime, and sweet and crisp in the autumn. Even in the winter it’s a paradise.” 

“I would like to see it for myself,” said the man. 

“And so you shall!” 

Jaskier’s voice had the triumphant twang to it that was usually reserved for performances. Geralt was impressed - his description of Toussaint had made it sound truly wonderful, although he’d skipped the parts about man-eating, acid-spitting plants and ferocious big cats. He could almost picture himself there, lazing at the side of a river, a glass of fine red wine in his hand. 

Jaskier was still speaking. “We could find a room there, perhaps,” he said. “Something overlooking the river, and the palace - a gorgeous sight in the sunrise. Not that I intend to see too many sunrises.” 

Geralt could picture it, clear as anything. He’d been to that inn - although had never stayed there - and could picture the sight of the sun rising over the water and the palace, lighting up the fine white stone and the rows upon rows of neat vineyards. He could imagine Jaskier - whose tastes were far too opulent for the backwaters and swamps of Velen - leaning in a balcony, watching the sunrise with him, his arms folded across his chest and his hair standing at odd angles around his head. 

Fuck. Where had that come from? The image - Toussaint, the sunrise, Jaskier - had crept up on him unbidden. As soon as he realised he was thinking of it, he realised how much he wanted it - how much Jaskier’s story _made_ him want it. Geralt froze with the jug to his lips. Jaskier was flirting _well_. He was flirting so well that Geralt had found himself dragged along into the fantasy he’d constructed for someone else. 

Someone else. It wasn’t Geralt standing on that balcony with Jaskier, watching the sun rise, it was a human-shaped shadow, a body with a blank face. It wasn’t for him: it would _never_ be for him. 

_Fuck_. 

Through his burning, twisting thoughts - the jealousy, hot and sudden and new - came Jaskier’s voice, clear as a bell. 

“There’s a lake,” he said, “where you can rent these… ah, these covered boats. They’re wide, with these tall sails and fringed canopies….” Jaskier sighed, and Geralt realised he was holding his breath. “Tell me, Johann…” Jaskier purred, “Have you ever been fucked in a boat?” 

_Oh_. Lapping water, the fringed canopy dancing in the breeze, the taste of wine, the taste of salt, the sweaty touch of skin on skin. Jaskier’s lips, Jaskier’s body, Jaskier whispering his name like he’d whispered Johann’s. 

Geralt spluttered on his ale. Jaskier’s companion made an equally startled noise. 

This was bad. This was extremely bad. Geralt was suddenly feeling very warm and uncomfortable, the thick cloak and the heavy hood closing in on him. He pushed the hood back with a grunt, letting it fall away, running his free hand through his hair. He realised that the jug in his other hand was shaking, and he put it down with more force than he meant to. It collided with the sticky surface of the bar with a bang, making the patrons around him jump and those closest suddenly fall silent, just for a moment. 

A moment was enough. 

“Geralt?!” 

Fuck. 

Geralt turned around, slowly. Jaskier was standing, and the man at his side - tall, broad, unimportant - was looking up at him, frowning. Jaskier’s face split into a wide grin, and suddenly he was making his way around the table, stuttering a half-hearted apology to Johann before heading for the bar. 

“Geralt!” 

“Jaskier.” 

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said, still grinning, “I thought… well, I assumed you’d be somewhere a little more interesting.” 

Geralt looked around the room, and his gaze fell on Johann, who was scowling at him. “Seems interesting enough,” he said. 

Jaskier followed his gaze. “Oh,” he said, “Yes, ah… well, it’s very… very nice. A good little tavern with good coin to be made.” He nibbled on his lip, a little nervously, then hopped up onto the stool next to Geralt. “How are you, anyway?” 

_Water. Wine. Whispers._

“Fine.” 

“And as loquacious as ever, I see. Some things never change, do they?” 

He gave Geralt a little nudge with his elbow, then gestured at the barman for a drink. The spot where Jaskier had touched Geralt’s arm tingled. 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier’s drink arrived, and he set to it eagerly, taking a deep swig with a little appreciative noise that did absolutely nothing to calm Geralt’s racing mind. 

“So,” Jaskier said happily, “Where to next?” 

Geralt frowned at him. “Meaning?” 

“Meaning you can’t be intending to leave me here, can you Geralt? It’s all very lovely but I’m growing bored of ale and rain. At least a monster hunt might liven things up a little.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. He never needed to ask Jaskier if he wanted to travel together - Jaskier always invited himself along, like the offer was inevitable. It probably was, of course, but Geralt didn’t need Jaskier to know that. 

“I was thinking of going south,” he said, “before winter sets in.” 

“Oh?” 

“Hmm. I suppose you’d be interested in joining me?” 

“Of course, Geralt! Anywhere’s better than Velen, for Melitele’s sake, and I’ve not been South in an age. I can try out my new songs on fresh crowds. Where are you headed?” 

Geralt drained his pint. 

“Toussaint.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D Catch more of my nonsense over on [my tumblr](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) <3


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